


love got me looking so crazy right now

by Della19



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 50 Shades Of Grey, But with added consent, I Blame Tumblr, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, What Have I Done, like all the consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Eggsy wishes for anything right ‘bout now, it would be that Roxy hadn’t got sick last night and that she was the one waiting around in this bloody posh office instead of ‘im.  ‘Cause shite, Eggsy’s no journalist - he’s a month short of a psych degree that he’s only got half an idea of what he wants to do with it. But fuck, Roxy was sick, and he’s knows this bloody interview with this posh tosser billionaire industrialist bloke is a big fuckin’ deal to her, and so ‘course Eggsy said he’d do the interview for her, ‘cause what else is a mate to do?</p><p>And so, that’s how Eggsy finds himself waitin’ in this fuckin’ posh lobby for this mysterious bloke, wishin’ desperately to be anywhere else, or at least in ‘sumthing finer than his one pitiful cheap suit. </p><p>And then the receptionist, a cool stunner of a statuesque blonde turns to him and says, “Mr. Hart will see you now.”</p><p>Or, the obligatory Fifty Shades of Grey AU.  Harry/Eggsy, featuring 100% mutual consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: …So I’m not a Fifty Shades of Grey fan; I haven't seen the movie and I don't intend to. But look, this fucking AU was always going to happen because there are posters and two fanmade "50 Shades of Hartwin" trailers already, and I figured at least if I wrote this I could work out my complicated Fifty Shades of Grey (consent, you might notice in my work is a huge thing for me, and that series made me uncomfortable in the not sexy "this feels like emotional abuse" way) feelings. But yeah, I figured I should probably let you go into the fic with the that knowledge: I’m not a Fifty Shades fan, I’m not good at Britpicking, I’ve never written bdsm, though this fic might never even get that far. This is probably a terrible idea, and I’m doing it anyways.
> 
> Disclaimer: Fifty Shades of Grey is owned by E.L James, and Kingsman: The Secret Service is owned by Marv, Mark Millar and Dave Gibbons. The title is from Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love.” I own only my shame.
> 
> Also, for those who asked the brilliant fanvids are at: http://youtu.be/tdNvjtdV_fY by sullie-sp  
> http://youtu.be/dPhqf_BsPTo by Jay KIM PRODUCTION
> 
> The links are shared currently here without the permission of the creators, because I don't know how to use tumblr, so if you happen to be one of those people and would like to have them removed from here, I will do so.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=295wrr)

***************************************

_On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man_

_In a dusty black coat with a red right hand_

_He'll wrap you in his arms_

_And tell you that you've been a good boy_

\- Red Right Hand, The Arctic Monkey’s

***************************************

If Eggsy wishes for anything right ‘bout now, it would be that Roxy hadn’t got sick last night and that she was the one waiting around in this bloody posh office instead of ‘im. ‘Cause shite, Eggsy’s no journalist - he’s a month short of a psych degree that he’s only got half an idea of what he wants to do with it. But fuck, Roxy was sick, and he knows this bloody interview with this posh tosser billionaire industrialist bloke is a big fuckin’ deal to her. And so looking at her miserable sick face, ’course Eggsy said he’d do the interview for her, ‘cause what else is a mate to do?

And so, that’s how Eggsy finds himself waitin’ in this fuckin’ posh lobby for this mysterious bloke, wishin’ desperately to be anywhere else, or at least in ‘sumthing finer than his one pitiful cheap suit.

And then the receptionist, a cool, stunner of a statuesque blonde turns to him and says, “Mr. Hart will see you now.”

He’s in it now, Eggsy figures.

***************************************

Mr. Hart, when Eggsy enters an office that’s probably worth more than the entirety of Eggsy’s whole _block_ growing up, is standing at the wall of windows that dominate his office, his back to the door. Eggsy notes that he is a tall man, with broad shoulders that are framed by a dark posh suit, and that he exudes an aura of leashed _power_ standing there, master of all he surveys.

And then Mr. Hart turns around.

Mr. Hart, Eggsy’s notes, as his heart does one, slow _stutter_ in his chest, is also a _stone fuckin’ fox_.

Eggsy thinks its painfully unfair that the googling on the bloke he did before he got here didn’t prepare him for the _jolt_ that hits him at the sight of him, with his sleek brown hair and his bloody _cheekbones_ that make Eggsy want to press little kisses there, as if in _worship_. Eggsy swallows, makes himself push it away.

It ain’t relevant, ain’t important.

“Harry Hart,” the man himself says, voice like bleedin’ _melted chocolate_ or ‘sumthing, all dark and _rich_ , as he offers his hand out stretched and Eggsy puts his own in it, and returns in a voice he has to work to make level, “Eggsy Unwin.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Hart says, holding his hand for what must be considered a proper time, hands unexpected rough and callused, before releasing Eggsy’s. And then there is a long pause where Eggsy stands uncomfortably, ‘cause he hasn’t been offered a chair, and he’s no posh bloke, but his mum raised him right.

“Please, take a seat,” Mr. Hart finally offers, gesturing with one of his hands to the posh leather chair behind him, and there’s this tiny smile that curls into the edges of his mouth that bizarrely makes Eggsy feel like he’s passed some kind of _test_.

...He finds really likes that little smile, and the _feeling_ that blooms in him at _provoking_ that smile.

Eggsy takes a seat.

Mr. Hart makes himself comfortable across from him in his own chair, legs elegantly folded, and Eggsy pointedly ignores how _long_ those legs are in those posh trousers in favour starting in on the questions Roxy printed out for him. And they get into a decent rhythm, of ‘im asking and Mr. Hart answering what are, Eggsy imagines, pretty routine questions. His early life, inheriting his father’s very successful high end tailoring business and turning those prime contacts into what is now the empire that is Kingsman Incorporated.

Posh from cradle to grave, Eggsy finds himself thinkin’ uncharitably, before he pushes that away, labels it as unfair. Mr. Hart no more picked his start as much as anybody else did, he reminds himself, and he’s been nothin’ but polite to ‘im.

Eggsy ain’t got much love for the rich, but that ain’t no allowance to be rude.

“You look as if you have something on your mind,” Mr. Hart says, tone of level, nonjudgmental inquiry, but Eggsy can feel himself colour anyways at being caught wool gathering, especially given the _nature_ of the wool. “It ain’t important,” Eggsy says, trying to defer attention away with a dismissive shake of his head, but Mr. Hart only leans back further into his chair and says, never taking his eyes away from Eggsy’s own, “Indulge me, none the less.”

It’s the softest, most _compelling_ subtle _command_ he’s ever heard, velvet over and iron fist, and it sparks something _deep down_ inside him, some little flame Eggsy knows has always been there, but never takes the time to _feed_.

Eggsy indulges him.

“It’s just, not that it ain’t impressive what you’ve made, ‘cause it is, but...its an awful lot easier to build ‘sumthing grand when you’re breaking ground with a silver spoon, ain’t it?” Eggsy says, and then the _weight_ of what he’s said, to _whom_ he’s said it to catches up with him, and he wonders if he can possibly just erase the last ten seconds from memory, ‘cause Mr. Hart’d be well within his rights to toss him out on his ear, and Eggsy can’t go back to Roxy and tell her he bungled the interview ‘cause he couldn’t keep his _stupid_ trap shut.

Roxy’s small, but she’s fierce, and she’ll have his nads for a _necklace_ or ‘sumthing.

But before Eggsy can scramble together some frantic apology Mr. Hart says, “That is quite true,” and instead of looking pissed he looks _animated_ , as if Eggsy has finally said ‘sumthing that’s _worthy_ his attention as he continues. “Wealth brings with it an unfair advantage, and often, regrettably a terrible attitude towards those less fortunate. But not all those who are wealthy fall into this trap, just as not all of those who are born into less fortunate circumstances fall into stereotypes.”

And then he leans forward, turns that strangely _intense_ gaze fully upon Eggsy before he says, with a gesture of his hand towards him, “Take you for an example - a humble beginning, if you might permit me to guess, one where you could have easily turned to petty crime or drugs. But you adapted, worked hard and transformed yourself into someone superior to your former self and your circumstances, and so here you are today, an accomplished and clever young man,” Mr. Hart finishes, smiling that little half smile at him once again.

That smile makes Eggsy want to do things he ain’t even got _names_ for.

“We ain’t talkin’ about me,” Eggsy says, running a nervous hand over his suddenly too warm neck, shoving down that part of ‘im that wants to take a moment and bask in the admiration that he is receiving, the part that suddenly feels _proud_.

Eggsy thinks he might be goin’ out of his fuckin’ _mind_.

“A pity,” Mr. Hart says, still too close, still too _intense_ for comfort, but then he relaxes back, frees Eggsy from whatever spell he’s cast on him as he acquiesces, with a light wave of his hand, “But a fair point. Ask the rest of your questions then.”

Eggsy turns back to the questions, and takes it as the lifeboat that it is.

“I’m skipping that one,” Eggsy says, readin’ the next one, more talkin’ out loud than to Mr. Hart, shakin’ his head ‘cause seriously, what was Roxy _thinkin’_ with this question? But then, at Mr. Hart’s inquisitive look Eggsy figures he’s got to elaborate since he’s mentioned it now, and he does, saying frankly, “It’s ‘bout whether you’re gay. But that ain’t any of my business, ‘nor anyone else’s I reckon but yours, so I ain’t asking it.”

Mr. Hart is definitely lookin’ at ‘im with _approval_ now, a look that _warms_ every part of him.

Eggsy is legitimately worried he might not get out of this office with his sanity intact.

“Last one; if you could describe your philosophy for life, in one sentence?” Eggsy says, pushin’ that down, _far away_ , ’cause he’s almost finished, he’s so close to making it through this, _so close_.

So close, and yet, he finds, as Mr. Hart pins him with those eyes of his, fuckin’ _lasers_ behind his proper glasses, _so far_.

“ _Manners, maketh man_ ,” Mr. Hart says, drawing each syllable out until they are as taunt as Eggsy’s nerves, live wires beneath too _tight_ skin, as inquires of Eggsy, voice as smooth as _silk_ , “Do you know what I mean by that?”

Eggsy, whose found that his mouth is suddenly too dry for speech, just shakes his head in the negative, a _stuttered_ , jerking motion.

“Well, you’ll have to let me teach you a lesson some day,” Mr. Hart says, and Eggsy wonders if he’s havin’ a _stroke_ or ‘sumthing, ‘cause by Eggsy’s ears it sounds like Mr. Hart’s _purred_ it, his voice is so fuckin’ _smooth_.

_Yes please_ , says Eggsy’s libido, prick threatening to go hard in the unforgivingly _thin_ material of his suit pants.

_Shut the fuck up_ , Eggsy tells his dick, and then thinks of dead puppies and that Katy Perry video where she’s an old lady stripper until he’s sure his prick’s got the message.

Unfortunately, as a consequence of averting that crisis Eggsy totally misses whatever Mr. Hart’s said to him, forcing him to ask for clarification sheepishly, trying for nonchalant, “Pardon?”

“I was asking for your number,” Mr. Hart says, whose standing by his desk now, finishing with a smooth, level, “In case there is any follow up needed for the interview,” and looking expectantly at Eggsy, and his gaze is so _absorbing_ that Eggsy doesn’t even think to wonder ’til after he’s scribbled his cell number down on a piece of letterhead why _Mr. Hart_ would need to contact _him_ in that scenario, and not the reverse. But then the blonde from before in her cool grey dress is back, and Mr. Hart smiles that _bloody_ half smile again as he says, “A pleasure speaking with you,” and Eggsy knows a dismissal when he hears one.

“Yeah, you too,” Eggsy says, managing a jerking nod, that is returned far more smoothly by Mr. Hart, before he takes the file the receptionist has brought him, turns his attention to it.

And Eggsy fuckin’ _flees_.

He makes it ’til he’s in his car in the underground carpark, safe away from prying eyes before he pulls out his _aching_ prick and fists it _desperately_.

And then, half shamefully he thinks of Mr. Hart; of that fuckin’ _voice_ , those warm bloody _eyes_ , that bleedin’ little quirk of those _lips_ and those unexpectedly _rough_ hands, _using_ him, _teaching him a lesson_ , and yeah, that’s it for Eggsy, eyes whiting out as he cums all over himself.

Eggsy’s real grateful that he keeps tissues in the glovebox.

***************************************

“Oh good, you’re back,” Roxy says when he gets back to their place, looking pleased to see him but still frankly awful, all red nosed and eyed in a way that makes Eggsy want to make her chicken soup and send her right back to bed, before she preempts him, asking lightly, “How was the interview?”

And Eggsy thinks of sticky hands, and that voice, smooth and _commanding_ , that spoke to parts of him he barely even knew he _had_.

“It was fine,” he says blandly, lying to his oldest friend whom he thinks of like his sister, and tries desperately to suppress the thought of just what kind of _lessons_ he could see himself wanting from the _oh so proper_ Mr. Hart, farther out of his reach than the stars to the moon. He fails miserably.

He’s in so much fuckin’ _trouble_.

***************************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So…more? Yes, no, awful idea? Because this suddenly feels like it could get long, and I’m not sure I’m up for another long fic given med school and my flighty muse. And when I say more, I mean the way I see this fic if I continue it is a “relatively sexually inexperienced college student interviews a mysterious reclusive billionaire and they develop a relationship and kink happens with SUPER FUCKING CLEAR MUTUAL CONSENT LIKE 100% OF THE TIME” with a few 50 Shades landmarks (I could only get through half the book, so those would be rather vague landmarks) rather then a super faithful AU. I just…this is one of those fics I’m really not sure about, one of those ones where I could leave it here and be ok with it I think. Maybe this for now, and snippets in the future? Honestly, this little snippet kind of did the things I needed it to do. Whatever, have some UST, I need to go sleep, learn all of the joints, tendons and bones of musculoskeletal system and then rethink my life choices. Enjoy, comments, the usual ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I feel like I might have lowballed my feelings on the actual 50 shades series a bit in the previous authors note, but given the general vibe in the comments, I feel like I can say it now. I’m in no way passing any judgement on anyone who likes the series - seriously I like the Halle Berry Catwoman movie, so own that pride in your guilty pleasures! - but I personally felt that it displayed an abusive relationship where BDSM was an obstacle that the heroine had to overcome to get her ‘perfect’ relationship, rather than a consensual part of that that relationship. And although I can claim no expertise in the realm of BDSM, every bit of research I’ve done for this au just makes me more secure in my previously held opinion that the BDSM portrayed in the books is unsafe and not well done. So needless to say, that kind of “BDSM” won’t appear in this fic. If anyone wants to read a really fantastic analysis of the series from a critical perspective, I suggest googling “Jenny Reads 50 Shades,” where author Jennifer Armintrout read the series and blogged chapter recaps about the characters, plot and the type of relationship and bdsm portrayed in them in a hilarious and brilliant way. So yeah, I’ve said my peace, and I’ll get off my soapbox now, and with that said, please feel free to proceed onto the fic (or not, whatever, freedom of choice and all ;) ).

***************************************

 _“My new and improved Golden Rule: Dom unto others as you would have God Dom unto you.”_ ― Michael Makai, Domination  & Submission: The BDSM Relationship Handbook

***************************************

When he wakes up the mornin’ of his Advanced Development Seminar exam to sticky sheets, and the memory of Mr. Hart’s voice as he offered Eggsy a _lesson_ on manners, Eggsy admits he’s got a problem.

Not that kind of problem, though.

Look, the thing you gotta know about Eggsy is, he ain’t a homophobe, or some thug who beats on gays ‘cause he’s deep in his own closet. “Cause well, _yeah_ , he spent some time in that closest, ‘cause when you’ve got a step-dad like Dean, whose breath smells of whisky and whose fists are hard, the last thing you want to be is a _cocksucker_ , if you catch him. But he’s four years out of the Dean age, and Dean’s still got a dime left on his armed robbery sentence, and in those four years he’s done a lot of talking and growing and coming to terms with who he is. Eggsy is twenty-four, he’s good looking, he’s got a certain rough ‘round the edges charm, and he’s into blokes.

He just ain’t never got fucked by one before, is all.

“Cause look, Eggsy’s doing an honours degree, and working whenever he can waitin’ tables to help support his mum and Gracie, and on the off chance he’s got a free moment he’d rather be down at the kids shelter playing ball with ‘em then trying to tart himself up for a night on the town. And it ain’t like he’s never done nothin’ - he’s had his share of frottin’, some right excellent hand jobs, and he gives pretty decent head, if he does say so ‘imself. Even had a bloke he might’d called a boyfriend for a month or two, ‘fore he’d realized Charlie was a right _twat_ and dumped him on his silver spooned arse.

The problem ain’t that he’s wanting to get fucked by a man.

The problem is the man he’s wanting is _Mr. Hart_.

And look, Eggsy’s got ‘sum...biases when it comes to the posh set, he ain’t gonna deny that. But that don’t mean he also don’t got his head on straight - blokes like Mr. Hart don’ fool around with the likes of ‘im. Mr. Hart, with his suits and his manners and his blue blood and his bloody _terrifyin’_ amount of money don’t lower ‘emselves to playin’ with people like Eggsy, whose just barely dodged bein’ one of those statistics that Mr. Hart’d mentioned.

This ain’t Pretty Woman, is all Eggsy sayin’. He ain’t got no hopes of a Richard Gere type comin’ to give ‘im some fairytale, and he’s fine with that.

Which is why when ‘is cell rings, while Eggsy’s doin’ the dishes and he picks it up without checkin’ the display, answerin’ with his traditional, “‘Ello,” he ain’t expectin’ no one special.

“Mr. Unwin? It’s Harry Hart,” The voice that’s been stickying up his dreams announces, smooth even over the tinny receptor, and Eggsy startles so violently that the drops the mug he was in the process of washing and it shatters on the floor.

Rox is goin’ kill ‘em, he thinks distantly, in some matter of shock, staring at the mortal remains of her favourite mug.

“Mr. Unwin?” That damned voice says again, now coloured with something Eggsy thinks might be _concern_ , and that has ‘im snapping to himself quick enough as he manages to get out, “Eggsy please, shite, sorry Mr. Hart, I just...dropped ‘sumthin’.” And then, because he hardly wants to dwell on the fact that’s he’s turned into a twelve year old bird with a crush, he tries to pull himself back into reality as he asks, sure his voice is dripping with confusion, “You’re... callin’ ‘bout the interview?”

“Then you must call me Harry,” _Harry fuckin’ Hart_ says to him, all pleasant and polite as can be, and before Eggsy can even stop reelin’ over that, he just carries on, and it gets even more surreal, “No, I cannot think of anything necessary for follow up. I was calling to ask if you might like to share a drink with me, at the place of your choosing, of course.”

Eggsy takes a brief second to pinch himself. It hurts, and so apparently he is actually awake, though honestly, he still has doubts ‘cause otherwise a billionaire just asked him out for a _drink_.

“You...wanna go for a _pint_ with me?” Eggsy finds himself asking incredulously, ‘cause how is this his life, propping his hip up on the counter, “ _Why?_ ”

Seriously, life ain’t this kind of movie bruv.

“I enjoyed our conversation the other day a great deal,” _Harry fuckin’ Hart_ \- Fortune magazine’s most eligible bachelor Harry Hart - says, in a tone that seems to suggest he thinks it might be that kind of movie after, all smooth charm, like a little smile in his voice alone, “I was hoping to see if the effect could be replicated.”

Eggsy’d personally like to replicate some... _other_ effects, but seriously, _not the time_.

“You...wanna _talk_ with me?” Eggsy asks, wonderin’ idly if its at any way possible he’s suffered some type of brain injury in the last hour or so he missed, and is only now havin’ the auditory hallucinations catch up to ‘im, ‘cause seriously, what else explains what the _fuck_ is happening right now?

But instead, all he gets is a, “Yes, quite,” from Mr. Hart - _Harry what the bleedin’ fuck_ \- and the bloody nut sounds _pleased_ , like he’s satisfied that Eggsy is finally coming around, and he finishes with smooth, low and almost teasing, “Do you have any objection to that?”

Eggsy thinks that if there are people in the world that can say no to that _voice_ , they’re stronger than ‘im.

“No, I just...” He finds ‘imself saying, running an rueful hand through his hair as he gives in to the insanity like they both knew he would, “Seven, place called the Black Prince?” And then, as an after thought, “You need directions or ‘sumthing?”

“I believe I can avail myself of google and find it,” Mr. Hart says, and instead of being chiding there’s ‘sumthing _fond_ in ‘is voice, that makes Eggsy think he’s _enjoyin’_ teasin’ ‘im, “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you.”

“Yah, me too,” Eggsy finds himself saying, ‘cause its apparently clear now that Harry Hart turns ‘im into a stammerin’ moron, and then he’s just starin’ at ‘is phone in ‘is hand, listenin’ to the dial tone with one thought rattling around ‘is mind.

_What the actual fuck was that?_

“What was _that?_ ” Roxy squeals demandingly from her position at the entrance to the kitchen and Eggsy jumps ‘bout a foot off the ground, ‘cause apparently he was so absorbed in _Harry fuckin’ Hart_ he missed her standin’ there.

He is, in fact, a crush dazed twelve year old bird.

_Fan - fuckin’ - tastic_.

“Rox...” He starts, tryin’ futilely to discourage her from that line of query, but Rox barrels right through ‘im as she says, tone like a cat whose just snagged the canary, “Because that sounded an awful lot like _Harry Hart_ \- billionaire industrialist and frankly _unfairly_ handsome Harry Hart - asking you out on a date,” and then she does ‘sumthing with her eyebrows that Eggsy’s pretty sure is supposed to be suggestive but is mostly just plain ridiculous.

Admittedly, the fact she’s in jimmies with little poodles on ‘im probably ain’t helpin’ her cause.

“Ain’t a _date_ Rox, _jeez_ ,” Eggsy still makes a point of sayin’, a certain amount of exasperation in ‘is tone, ‘cause seriously, whatever the _fuck_ that just was, the truth is still this, “Blokes like _‘im_ don’t date blokes like _me_.”

Seriously, salient point right fuckin’ there.

“And why the _hell_ not?!” Roxy demands, rollin’ right over ‘is objections, ’cause she’s the kinda bird who gets offended on ‘is behalf, and don’t think he ain’t aware of how lucky he is to have her every time she does, “Whats wrong with _you_ , Eggsy Unwin that would turn off a bloke like _him_?”

Roxanne Morton, who sees the good in people, and Eggsy can’t help but love ‘er for it. Still, its a little off the point here, as he raises an eyebrow and drawls, chiding gently, “Rox...” ‘cause he might love ‘er, but he’s still got a functioning grasp on reality.

“ _Eggsy_ ,” Roxy says - Rox who went to emergency with him when Dean’d broken his arm for mouthing off to him and sat there all those hours waitin’, her hand in his, a steady, unwavering comfort - chiding him back, just as gently and her eyes are so terribly _kind_ he can hardly stand it, “You deserve to be happy.”

‘Sumtimes, like now, he’s so unbelievably grateful for this girl, who’d for ‘sum unexplained reason in 10th form had just walked up, introduced herself and decided they were just goin’ to be friends and she wasn’t goin’ to take no for an answer, he can hardly bear it.

Still, he feels like he’s gotta mention, ‘cause yeah, this is still the point he’s yet to scale, “And you think that’d happen with a guy like ‘ _im_?”

“You’ll never know unless you try,” Roxy says looking’s up at ‘im all practical kindness, steppin’ into ‘is arms and givin’ him little squeeze as she says, “Its just a pint.”

“It’s just pint,” Eggsy agrees, huggin’ her back, and ruthlessly stomps down that little voice within him that thinks, _pity_.

He is so fuckin’ _doomed_.

***************************************

Look, Eggsy ain’t gonna lie, part of ‘im picked the Black Prince ‘cause he really wants to see if a person like Harry Hart can be in it without the universe just like, ending or wot.

It’s small and petty of ‘im, Eggsy knows, but shite, man’s gotta have some amusements in life.

Naturally, however, Harry Hart defies all rational explanation as he shows up in a three piece suit, immaculate hair and, of all things, a black umbrella, standing in the Black Prince as comfortable as if he’s been there a thousand times before. His mouth curls into that little smile of his that’s stolen so much of Eggsy’s sleep when he catches sight of Eggsy, and he makes his way over to the booth with a slow, powerful stride, sitting with grace, and Eggsy looks at him across the table and thinks - _he looks like he belongs there_.

Eggsy is in _so_ much trouble.

The waitress has the excellent timing of showing up that moment to ask for their orders, and Harry Hart, whom Eggsy happens to know owns a vineyard and a brewery of his own turns to him and asks, as if its the expected thing to do, and his tone makes it seem as if he actually _values_ Eggsy’s opinion, “What would you recommend?”

Eggsy’s give ten years off the end of ‘is life to have Mr. Hart - he ain’t quite there yet with the whole Harry thing - to keep lookin’ at him like that, like he _matters_.

“Guinness is decent here,” Eggsy says instead of the utterly embarrassing things he’s thinkin,’ _thank christ_ , and he's pleased with how level ‘is voice is.

“Excellent, I shall have one of those, and leave myself in your capable hands,” Mr. Hart - _Harry_ , he’ll get it, he _will_ \- says smoothly, with that damned little smile of his, and Eggsy contemplates braining his head off the table, ‘cause seriously, now he’s got that _image_ burned in his brain, and he’s gonna die, just straight up croak at this booth.

Still, be a decent way to go, he reckons.

Thankfully the booze comes at that moment, the waitress continuing her streak of impeccable timing, and Eggsy makes a note to tip her well, ‘cause seriously, she deserves it after saving his arse twice already. And the Guinness really is decent here, and so, after a little cheers Eggsy takes a fortifying sip, takin’ comfort in the bitter taste.

“You mentioned before we were not there to talk about you,” Harry says, setting his glass down and turning his attention to Eggsy, that full, intense focus of his as he asks politely, but with what looks like genuine interest to Eggsy, “Would it be more acceptable now?”

And look, Eggsy still ain’t sure exactly what goin’ on here. Maybe this is like some charity thing to Harry, a chance to be Henry Higgins to Eggsy’s Eliza Doolittle, or maybe Harry Hart’s one of them blokes that own the world but like a little bit of the rough every now and then. But shite, Eggsy decides, it ain’t matter in the end, as long as he gets to keep baskin’ in that intense gaze of ‘is, keeps gettin’ to be the centre of Harry Hart’s impressive focus.

So Eggsy accommodates ‘is request.

“Ain’t a real unique story - dad died in the army, mum shacked up with a right wanker. Ain’t for a gymnastics coach that just wouldn’t mind his own and ‘fused give up on me, I’d ‘prolly be what you figured - petty crime, drugs, the works,” Eggsy says, shrugging his shoulders self deprecatingly, ‘cause ‘is little tale ain’t much even when it ain’t compared to buildin’ a corporate empire, “But he stuck ‘round, and so now I’m a month off my degree and lookin’ to see if I can master in counselling psych, pay if forward for ‘sum other kids who were like me.”

“Our own stories are always unique,” Harry says, like he is gently chiding him, before he says, tone and eyes _oh so_ fuckin’ _warm_ Eggsy can barely stand it, “And yours is certainly admirable in addition. You should not let yourself diminish what you have accomplished.”

Eggsy wants to fuckin’ _live_ in that warmth.

“I jus’...I dunno what you see when you look at me,” Eggsy says, running a hand over his too warm neck in a move that seems to all too familiar ‘cause of Harry, that same little kernel of _pride_ as before burnin’ quietly in his chest under that look.

“I see a young man with a great deal of potential,” Harry says, slowly, easily, but the _intent_ in ‘is eyes betrays his causal delivery, has Eggsy stuck, _pinned_ in that gaze, “And I am a man who appreciates potential.”

And look, Eggsy still ain’t sure if this ain’t some kind of charity thing for Harry, but at least now he knows this - if it is, then Harry is _hittin’_ on his charity project.

Eggsy finds ‘imself more than _fine_ with that.

“I find myself obligated to attend an art opening this Wednesday evening,” Harry says, changing gears, and Eggsy knows he’s doin’ it to let that tension dissipate, ‘cause Harry’s the real deal class act when it comes to manners. And then, all polite inquiry, but for that _‘sumthing_ in ‘is eye Eggsy thinks he’d do _all manner_ of things for, “Would you be interested in accompanying me?”

“To an art opening?” Eggsy says, brow rasied, ’cause shite, he doesn’t know much ‘bout the rules of slummin’ it, but he figures the goal ain’t to be seen by too many of your peers while doin’ it, givin’ more weight to the more appealin’ theories. Still, Eggsy’s knowledge of art is limited to graphic novels and for all he’d like to say yes, ‘cause shite, more time with Harry ain’t exactly ‘sumthing to be turned down, he figures it’s only fair he let Harry know that, saying bluntly, “I ain’t know much about art.”

“Then you will fit right in,” Harry says, a twinkle in ‘is eyes as he takes a dainty little fuckin’ sip of ‘is Guinness and Eggsy can’t help but shoot back, comfortable teasin’ Harry in a way he ain’t been with hardly anyone else, “You’re really a bit of a right snob, ain’t ye?”

“I only have an appreciation for the finer things in life,” Harry says, lightly, but with a slow, _deliberate_ look at Eggsy, like he seems to think _Eggsy_ is one of those things and yeah, Eggsy’s half hard under the table at the thought.

Honestly, he’s almost impressed he made it this long.

“I wouldn’ have nothin’ to wear,” Eggsy demurs, tryin’ to shake that thought off, crossin’ his legs to try and choke off ‘is ill timed erection, but its half hearted at best and they both know it.

“I could have something tailored and delivered for you,” Harry offers, and then, at the frown Eggsy’s sure must be bloomin’ on his face he continues, perceptive as ever, “The thought makes you uncomfortable.”

“I jus’...I ain’t real fond of gifts like that,” Eggsy says, bittin’ ‘is lip absently and thinkin’ of Charlie, who’d given ‘im a fancy watch and figured that meant he was entitled to Eggsy’s arse in return, to say nothin’ of how unimpressed he’d been when Eggsy’d corrected ‘im of that, “Those sort tend to come with an awful lot of strings.”

Bloody posh fuckin’ _twat_ Charlie was.

“Then you have been receiving gifts from the wrong sort of people,” Harry says, and there’s ‘sumthing _dark_ in ‘is eyes for a second, ‘sumthing _dangerous_ , as he says, voice entirely serious, “It is the worst sort of manners to give a gift for any reason other than the pleasure of giving. And as mentioned, I pride myself on my manners.”

Harry Hart, the old world gentleman, Eggsy thinks, lookin’ at the profile he makes. He might be the king of ‘is empire, but he’s a regular fuckin’ Galahad he is.

Still, he ain’t just gonna stick ‘im up on that white horse in ‘is mind yet, and so Eggsy puts it to the test, asking with some scepticism, “Just that easy? You’d gimme a suit and not want _anything_ for it?”

“Only the pleasure of seeing you in it, I assure you. Gifts that are not freely given are meaningless,” Harry says, not taking the bait, tone entirely serious, and Eggsy can tell that he means every single word he says, that there is nothing hidden beneath it, no resentment or strings to tangle ‘im in, “But if it truly makes you uncomfortable, then I will refrain.”

_Aroused by gallantry_ , Eggsy thinks, as ‘is prick gives another ill-timed twitch, _that’s a new one_.

_Meh_. Bigger fish and all that.

“You ain’t got my size,” Eggsy says slowly, that thought in mind, but its a yes, and they both know it, if the pleased twinkle in Harry’s eye is any indication.

“Of that you needn’t worry. I am the son of a tailor; I have an _excellent_ eye,” Harry returns smoothly, and yeah, now that was _definitely_ a bit of a come on if Eggsy’s ever heard one, and the once over was awful nice for ‘is pride as well, as Harry finishes, that little smile makin’ an appearance again, “I will need your address though, please, for delivery.”

And then, naturally, ‘cause this is his luck, as soon as he's finished scribblin' his address down on a napkin, it all goes to hell.

“Oi, Eggsy Unwin, ‘dat ‘ya?”A voice spits from across the pub, pullin’ Eggsy out of the moment, and he turns to see one of Dean’s goons stand up. Rotty, it is, naturally the one who’d hated ‘im most, even before Eggsy’d nicked ‘is car for a joyride that one time. And if he’d ever had any claim to charm its fully lost under the haze of alcohol Eggsy can see in ‘is eyes as he stumbles over, “Didn’t fink you’d be dim ‘nough to show yer face round these parts no more.”

“Rotty,” Eggsy drawls insolently, panic makin’ his mouth run off before his brain can catch up, wanting him to just _fuck off_ as far away from Harry as possible, “What, don’ tell me they let _you_ out early for good behaviour?”

...Eggsy’s never been much good at defusing shite like this, come to think of it.

Naturally, Rotty reacts just as you’d expect, puffin’ up red with rage as he spits out, “Oi, you littl’...” and taking a threatening step towards Eggsy, but at least he ain’t lookin’ at Harry, so bit of a victory there.

And then, unexpectedly, their little drama gets a third player.

“You are interrupting,” Harry says, voice cutting and yet still somehow polite, that velvet over steel again, as he sends Rotty a dismissive, _bored_ look, designed Eggsy is sure to cut to the fuckin’ _bone_ , “I’ll ask you to take your leave.”

Oh, this ain’t gonna end well.

“Oh you would, ‘ay? You’ll  _ask_ me?” Rotty spits, incredulously, not a man used to the word no, before he turns ‘is gaze to Harry and says, as derogatorily and patronizingly as possible, “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you _gramps_. Why don’t ya just toddle off an’ find ‘urself another arse to buy? They rent by the hour down on Smith Street.”

_Rotty_ , Eggsy recalls with some clarity, _was never much of a charmer_.

And yeah, he probably shoulda expected that when he prodded Rotty, ‘cause Rotty’s an arsehole of the highest kind who never had much of an opinion of ‘im. And if that was just it, Eggsy’d blow it off, ‘cause shite, consider the source and all that ‘ight? But its the insult to _Harry_ , who don’t deserve none of those aspirations on his character that has Eggsy standin’, ready to retool that ugly mug of Rotty’s, when a hand on his shoulder stops ‘im.

It’s Harry’s hand.

And Eggsy don’t even have the time to linger on how nice that _weight_ is, warm and heavy and _solid_ , ’cause then Harry Hart removes his hand, stands up, shifts ‘is umbrella causally in ‘is hands, and the _smile_ he sends Rotty would have the blood draining from the face of a smarter man.

And then, he _moves_.

And shite, Eggsy can barely call it anything other than that, ‘cause Harry catches Rotty’s leg with one fast kick and uses the momentum to hook ‘is fuckin’ _umbrella_ round the back of ‘is thick skull, and ram it into the table, all in one smooth, _elegant_ motion.

_Spent some time in the army_ , Eggsy recalls distantly from the interview, like it was a million years ago, starin’ with eyes he knows must be huge from shock at Rotty’s unconscious form on the floor, _hobbies include mixed martial arts_.

_Brutal elegance_ , Eggsy decides, is ‘sumthing he’s going have to add to ‘is _list of things about Harry Hart that make ‘is prick stiff._

It’s gettin’ to be quite a list.

“I do apologize for that,” Harry _fuckin’_ Hart says calmly, drawing ‘im out of his thoughts, as polite as can be, fixin’ his cuffs casually like he ain’t just taken a man apart with a bloody _umbrella_ in the hottest bleedin’ way possible, “I simply distain that sort of unpleasantness.”

“Nah, that was... _fine_ ,” Eggsy manages to get out, like he ain’t hard as a _rock_ under this table ‘cause of the brutal controlled _elegant violence_ he just witnessed, in the name of defendin’ his _honour_.

It’s a thought that makes Eggsy want _so many_ things.

“Wednesday at ten, for the opening?” Harry asks, all casual elegance, slidin’ what looks like a hundred pound note under ‘is empty glass for the bill, and Eggsy, bold in a way he wasn’t before, looks ‘im dead in the eye and says slickly, “Wouldn’t miss it,” and then he adds a _wink_ , ‘cause fuck it if there was ever a moment for a wink, that was it.

And _oh_ the _look_ that Harry lets slip at the gesture, like he’d like to fuckin’ _devour ‘im alive_ before he reigns ‘imself in, composes ‘imself in the blink of an eye, makes it _oh so_ fuckin’ worth it.

And then Harry leaves, all put together, the picture of a civilized gentleman and Eggsy’s left at the booth, a fuckin’ _mess_ , all hard and _achin’_ and _wantin’_.

Yeah, Eggsy’s so fuckin’ grateful for those wipes in ‘is car.

***************************************

The package comes two days later, delivered to his door. Roxy, who’d reacted with what could be only called _glee_ when he’d regaled her with the more...tame parts of it all had given it to ‘im with a saucy wink ‘fore she’d headed off to class, and so that’s how Eggsy finds ‘imself starin’ at it alone in ‘is room. And it’s an innocuous lookin’ thing, just a big black box with the words Kingsman Tailors embossed across the front of it in tasteful gold lettering; nothin’ to give off the idea of the _magnitude_ of what’s really in it.

And then he opens it.

_Fuck_.

“Cause shite, Eggsy knows nothin’ about tailorin’ or fabrics or what have you, but even he can tell this is some fuckin’ suit, all sleek navy elegance, like an armour that demands class and respect when you put it on. And then he does put it on, and of _course_ the bloody thing fits perfectly, ‘cause this is Harry Hart, and he’d ‘ave expected no less. And so he he stands and looks at the stranger he sees in the mirror, tries to see whatever Harry does, that _potential_ , but he can only see _‘im_ lookin’ back, wantin’ things he ain’t even got _names_ for.

_Bought and paid for_ , Eggsy thinks, looking at ‘is reflection in the mirror, all spiffied up in this posh suit that fits ‘im like a second skin and is prolly worth more than his _car_ if’d ‘ave to guess.

The suit that Mr. Hart - that _Harry_ \- ‘ad made just for _‘im_.

_Bought and paid for_ , Eggsy thinks, and his cock’s hard enough to _pound nails_.

He is so _fucked_.

***************************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: …so, apparently you enablers talked me in into going forward with this. I’m justifying this fic to myself as sort of reclaiming the things that didn't feel right (read “felt abusive”) to me in the part of the book I got through, so this one would be “gift giving that doesn’t have manipulative rapey connotations.” Because seriously, Alec rapes Tess in Tess of the D’Ubervilles (the books Christian gives her), making that kind of an…inappropriate gift, and when you add that Ana clearly feels uncomfortable (though strangely not because of the whole “rape” thing) accepting them and how few fucks Christian gives about that, it becomes less…sweet, shall we say. So yes, next, the non-abusive human’s guide on how to react to virginity. 
> 
> Also, there is so much dialogue in this! How is it possible in a 50 shades au I’m looking forward to writing dialogue the least?! Whatever, enjoy, comments, you know the drill.


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